


Easy Come, Easy Go (And isn't that the damnedest thing?)

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, SMPLive
Genre: Also I mean it when I say not exactly good guy Schlatt, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Diverges like way early. Like Manberg festival early, Gen, Insane Wilbur Soot, It's more that he doesn't want to blow up Manberg, Not Exactly Good Guy Schlatt, Respawns are a thing though, Traitor Toby Smith | Tubbo, he has his moments but he still was planning to execute tubbo, technically anyway, this is not current events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Schlatt plans and plans and plans, readies himself for his final last hurrah. He's ready for anything really, because he has never cared about any of it at all. He plans, he plots, and he waits.And then the time doesn't come, and he's left to flounder in the aftermath.(A one-off oneshot that evolved into multiple oneshots in the same universe. Not a multi-chapter story, more of a collection of snippets from the same era.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Floris | Fundy & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Ty | IAmTy & Connor | Connoreatspants, No Romantic Relationship(s), Schlatt & Co - Relationship, So basically - Relationship
Comments: 32
Kudos: 337
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It's supposed to be easy. 

See, Schlatt is many, many things. He's a man, he's a monster. He's a businessman, he's a con-man. 

_(He's a god. He's a demon. He's nothing, he's mortal.)_

Schlatt has more names than he could possibly even dream of counting. He drowns in them, swallows them up and uses them to bolster an ego that was forged of titanium. More names, more screams, _more power—!_

Schlatt is and was many things. Schlatt is not an idiot. 

He knows from the start, before it even begins, that Tubbo will turn traitor. Hell, he wouldn't even call it that if he was being honest. (Which luckily for him, he never is.) Pulling Tubbo, the bright eyed, nervous wreck of a kid into his cabinet is a power move. A final dig at the gut of Wilbur Soot and everything he represents, a final mouthful of spit to stick to the end of a violent, overdramatic _"fuck you",_ strings he pulls through the ends of Wilbur's perfect tapestry with the express purpose of causing as much chaos as physically possible. It isn't even a personal vendetta — not really anyway. It's just Schlatt, craving what he always does. Power, money, and a little bit of fun. That's him. Those are the pieces that make up the whole. 

He knows that Tubbo's a traitor, even before the kid tries to lie about it — and the key word is _tries,_ because Tubbo couldn't lie to save his life. He knows every single time the kid sneaks away to betray falsehoods with a few truths sprinkled in for flavor. He knows every single time the kid makes up another impossible lie in an attempt to soothe absolutely nothing at all. He knows he's a traitor when Tubbo runs off to the woods and comes back with his expression more stable — eyes set and hands steady. He knows he's a traitor as he ruffles his hair on an old wooden path, as he smiles and tells him he's proud. He knows he's a traitor as Tubbo peeks inside his office at night, gaze dragging over the papers that litter Schlatt's desk like purgatory, knows he's a traitor when Tubbo brings Quackity and they both pry old bottles from his fingertips, guide him like he can't walk a straight line. 

He knows Tubbo is a traitor as he stands just behind him, back straight and arms folded behind him like a regal king. He knows he's a traitor, and he does not pity Quackity just because Tubbo smiles like he isn't. The concrete powder that stains his concealed hands dusts the inside of his suit jacket, and he knows what will happen. He plans it all, step by step, dragging a reluctant Quackity along by the lapels as he plots a glorious ending to his fireball of a reign. He knows Quackity is bound to fall too, to go in the same blaze that will send away Tubbo, once the latter respawns. He doesn't care. 

He knows that Tubbo has a trigger word, given to him by a maddened Wilbur. That he has a plan he thinks Schlatt doesn't know about — that he thinks Schlatt is oblivious to the mass amounts of TNT that litter the stage and audience seating. He also knows that the wire has long since been cut, severed before the plot could even begin. The deaths that came from explosions were quick, and respawning was quicker, but the buildings would be too much of a pain to reconstruct. 

He knows, and he waits. He waits as Tubbo begins the speech of a traitor, all bright eyes and shaking, clammy hands. 

He waits. His ears are pricked upward, waiting for the moment that will trigger the end of it all with near baited breath…

…

...

And it doesn't come. 

It takes a second to process that it's over. In fact, he doesn't realize until applause breaks out over the crowd, starting with the vehement support of a man in a gilded crown and shielded eyes. Tubbo backs away from the microphone with an exhilarated exhale, looks around at the roaring crowd with a smile so wide that it's nearly blinding. He beams and he pulls the crowd in like a beacon, and he does not say the trigger phrase. 

Schlatt's brain stutters even as his facade — ever reliable, ever present, an everlasting bit — does not. His brain stutters for the first time to comprehend, to understand, to _realize,_ and Tubbo pauses to look at both him and Quackity in turn. The beaming smile dims a little from something like nervousness. 

Schlatt falls back to the bit. To the facade. To the proud smiles and the steady hands. He pulls Tubbo to his side and hooks an arm around his shoulders, and Quackity gives him a look that he can't quite decipher as he pulls the mic upward with a smile he doesn't know if he feels. He doesn't see the way Quackity pulls his hands from his pockets, doesn't see the way his shoulders begin to relax. 

"Let's give it up for Tubbo!" He calls to the cheering crowd, patting the kid — _god he's a kid, wasn't Schlatt that once?_ — on the shoulder. "What a fucking amazing speech, am I right? I love this guy!" 

He knows Tubbo is a traitor. Tubbo has to be. The smart thing to do would be to execute him — to box him in and blurt his lines and allow everything to go out in one final fucking blaze of glory. The final punctuation mark before he respawns and is finally sent back to wherever the hell he came from. 

He smiles and he thumps Tubbo on the back, shares a look with Quackity that he isn't sure he really understands. And he hates that, because he _always_ understands. That's what he does. He plans, he creates, he destroys. The concrete powder remains powder. The water bucket sits behind him, propped up and overflowing on the platform behind them. Tubbo looks at him and looks at Quackity and he looks _happy,_ and nothing goes to plan. 

Schlatt grabs Tubbo by the shoulders and tells him he's proud, and he does not look at the way Tubbo's eyes turn to lanterns or the way his smile splits his face. He doesn't see the pain behind it, like cut ties that waver in the wind like old bridges that burn in the centers. 

It's almost a miracle when Wilbur suddenly appears in the crowd, a violent crash of energy into the ringing in Schlatt's ears. He screams something near incoherent, points and shouts while smiling like Schlatt has never seen him smile before. He pulls Tubbo back with him and Quackity steps in front, and he doesn't register any of it at all, even as his lips stretch out into a smile and he shouts right back down. 

_(He's shouting again, and Schlatt can't hear him. He plugs his ears and closes his eyes and refuses to listen, because no matter what Wilbur says he always wants to be above him. The water creaks at his windows but he doesn't care, he can live here forever and Wilbur can't do a thing about —)_

Tubbo ducks his head away from Wilbur, nearly hides his face in the lapels of his suit. Schlatt doesn't stop him, doesn't protest, ignores it in favor of taunting a man with wild eyes and wilder gestures, a man who grows more frantic as the button he smashes does nothing at all. The girl — Nikki — who always refuses to remove her old uniform stares in horror, blinded by new realizations and old memories, and even she backs away when Schlatt screams an order to the guards, although it's impossible to tell if it's because of that or Wilbur's raging monologue.

They all do, they all watch as the circle closes around a banished ghost of the past. Technoblade sweeps between them, but even he looks antsy, brow furrowed as Wilbur continues to push past the sheild he tries to hold aloft. Schlatt wants to laugh. Doesn't Technoblade know that if Wilbur doesn't want to be protected, he won't be? 

Through it all, Quackity does not flee. Tubbo buries his head and Schlatt does not touch the concrete powder that lay in wait, and absolutely nothing goes to plan. 

_It was supposed to be easy,_ he thinks as the guards grasp at empty air. Technoblade soars into the sky on the heels of a trident at the same time that Tommy does, one vanishing while the other appears. 

_It was supposed to be easy,_ he thinks as Tommy vanishes in a blur of enderpearl dust, a thrashing Wilbur pinned by the arms. As Tommy looks back, eyes wide enough to reflect the agony of new betrayal. He wonders if Tubbo is looking back, where Schlatt cannot see him. He wonders if Tommy knows how Tubbo trembles whenever Wilbur's maddened eyes lock on them, an echo of old times. 

_It was supposed to be easy,_ he thinks, as Tubbo begins to sob. As his hands rise on their own, ruffling the hair of a kid far too young to be in a war. 

It's supposed to be easy, and like everything else, it never was. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the festival behind them, Schlatt tries to figure out what the hell to do. 
> 
> Tubbo coming to him crying throws yet another wrench into his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people expressed interest in the first part of this series expanding, but the original chapter was only meant to be a oneshot. As a compromise, I decided to maybe write a couple of one-off oneshot additions placed at random points in the timeline after the OG chapter. I might end up taking requests for snippets, since none of these will be directly related. Think of it like a bunch of random snapshots from the same universe. 
> 
> So yeah ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ have some post festival content.

Tubbo comes to Schlatt crying, and Schlatt has no fucking idea what to do. 

He was just meant to do paperwork — to calculate what they'd lost and gained from the stint at the festival, at the profits they'd managed to make from travellers from the Dream SMP that had come to the event. There had been a decent number of them, all offering different methods of payment for Manberg goods, which was fine. Schlatt always prefers the concrete flick of a metal coin to paltry bartering, but he could adapt. Had to, because he wasn't even supposed to get this fucking far. He could adapt — had to adapt — to being a permanent president. 

He snorts quietly to himself as he taps his pen on the desk, brow deeply furrowed and head laid in his hand. 

Adapting, he comes to realize, is one of the strangest, oddest things he's ever done. Because Schlatt is a businessman above all else. That was all he's ever been. 

_(A flash of pink, grey, and white, a bright smile and a painted sign. Three figures, beaming underneath the evidence of their own long con. The sign, messily painted, reads " ~~Schlatt & co.~~".) _

There's a knock on his door. 

When he opens it, Tubbo damn near collapses into his arms, wiping at his face and whimpering like a wounded puppy. Schlatt's eyes are wide and his body is frozen, and it doesn't matter at all because Tubbo has decided to cling to his lapels like they're a lifeline. He stands there frozen for a good few seconds before he reaches out on autopilot, smoothing down the hair of a crying child in an ill-fitting suit. 

"Uh," he breathes, "er… okay. Come here kid, it's alright. Come on." Fuck. He didn't know how to deal with this, where was Quackity when you needed him? 

He nudges Tubbo forwards a bit in an attempt to get him to walk, but his grip doesn't lessen. Schlatt eventually has to move him himself, guiding the kid to a sofa pressed beneath a tinted window on the opposite side of his office. He falls into it and Tubbo sinks with him, curled up like he's been physically wounded. Something in Schlatt's chest tightens and he balks in surprise, because _what?_ What the fuck? Was he nervous? Why was he nervous?

_("Someone's in the house," gasps the kid, voice crackling and eyes too wide to be anything but panic as he whispers choked anxieties though the communicator. Schlatt's stomach drops to bedrock and he scrambles up from his seat, fingers white knuckled around his sword. He wasn't a fighter. It didn't matter. He couldn't have given less of a fuck._

_"I'm coming to get you Ty, don't worry, just breathe. I'll be right there."_

_He busts the door down with another suit-clad man by his side, both of them decked out in armor they rarely ever use. They were con-men, businessmen, not soldiers. Schlatt_ _feels fire lick at his veins with a rage he didn't know he possessed, and he knows that it didn't matter what they were._

_When they actually find the white haired boy, hidden in the corner of his room with his hands clutching a sword, Schlatt sinks to his knees and pulls him into a hug, and nobody says a thing.)_

Schlatt swallows hard and coughs into his fist, and Tubbo's white-knuckled grip on his suit suddenly releases all at once.

"I'm —" Tubbo stutters though a voice that cracks in the middle, "I'm sorry — that just… I thought—"

Tubbo had looked strained all day, even as that one girl — _Nikki,_ he reminds himself again, the one who'd tossed her uniform jacket away like it burned her skin — dragged him away, gently smiling with concern glittering behind her eyes. Tubbo had spent most of the day with her, save for when Schlatt or Fundy spoke to him in intermittent chunks. 

Schlatt flips the switch, trades confoundment for relaxation. 

"Nah," he says as he pats his suit, "it's fine. You have any idea how many of these things I have stashed away?" 

He actually doesn't have that many of them, only one backup that lay folded and untouched for reasons he couldn't possibly begin to comprehend. It had always felt important somehow, like he forgot something important. The memory always stays far from his grip though, drifting out of reach until he eventually gives up on looking. And he always does. 

Even so, Tubbo's swollen face breaks a little into a weak smile as he laughs, wiping at his cheeks with his sleeves. 

"Really?" He asks, and Schlatt falls back to the persona like he always does, slides right back into the mask with a sly smirk and a snap of his fingers. The metaphorical flip of a coin, from the rough edge to the polished center. 

"Yeah, I'm too good to have _one_ set. Who do you think I am, some kind of charity case?" He snorts, lies dripping like sand with ease, "I've got a million of 'em. What do I care if this one gets a little wet, I’ve been meaning to switch them anyway." 

He pokes at his tie for emphasis like it's a wet fish, and Tubbo laughs a little louder, a little more genuine as he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. Schlatt props up one elbow on the couch, leans his head on it as he gestures towards Tubbo. 

"You wanna tell me what's going on here? I mean, not to get down to brass tacks Tubbo, but you get paid way too much to be crying." 

The joke is blunt, and Schlatt already has an inkling as to what _particular_ event triggered Tubbo's tears, but it's all he knows. The bit continues without him, a living breathing mask that steals his skin. Tubbo's smile dims a little, weak at the edges like trembling glass, and Schlatt remembers the venom with which he'd argued with Quackity days before the festival, now unused yellow power staining his palms. 

"I…" Tubbo tries, but his voice trails off like it's stolen from his throat. He tries again. 

"It was just… the way that Tommy— the look, you know? I wasn't… I didn't think he'd be so _mad."_

Tubbo's expression crumples like wet paper, lips tugging into a sob again as he curls up in his seat. His dress shoes are scuffed and dirty, and they smear dust on Schlatt's sofa. 

Schlatt should speak. He knows he should — knows he would, even. But the words don't come. They stick like burrs and strangle his air until he's stuck being silent, and Tubbo continues even as his voice breaks again. 

"Wilbur was going to blow up Manberg!" Tubbo confesses, almost a word-vomit as he sobs, "he wanted to blow up Manberg, but — and I couldn't — Tommy said he was crazy, but I didn't think—!" 

Tubbo keeps breaking off at every other word, and Schlatt's ears are beginning to ring, and he can only assume Tubbo can't hear a word he's saying, because Tubbo just _confessed._ He essentially just confessed to everything Fundy had been reporting on for weeks, confessed to bring the traitor that Schlatt knew he was from the start. He confesses and he sobs, and Schlatt is struck dumb by his own predictions. By the absolute _gall_ of the kid, blurting it all out in his lap like treason wasn't kindling to a possible flame. Sure, he doesn't say he was involved, but he doesn't have to. Even if Schlatt had been as stupid as he'd pretended to be, Tubbo had been caught with Tommy too many times for anyone to draw any other conclusion. 

He's struck dumb by the fact that Schlatt, even as he understands this, doesn't immediately reach for his sword. 

_What the hell,_ he thinks blindly, _what am I supposed to do?_

"Hey," he reaches out and grabs one of Tubbo's arms, and Tubbo's spiel cuts off mid-word. He doesn't know what he intends to do, what words are going to fall or why. He reaches out without thinking. Good thing too, because Tubbo is gasping for air, near incomprehensible with a grief so thick that even Schlatt can taste it in the air. Tubbo looks up at him with shining eyes, and something—

_("Oh god," Schlatt whispers, "jesus fuckin' christ kid, you scared us."_

_His fingers dig into the back of Schlatt's armor and the other man stands in front of them both, sword still drawn and clutched between one golden gauntlet and one normal glove, eyes scanning every inch of the room. His emerald green tie shimmers under the dim light of the moon, and the yellow hat hidden beneath his helmet pokes out a bit — by all means, he should look utterly ridiculous._

_His face, creased as it is with the evidence of a typical smile, is dead serious. He should look ridiculous. He does not._

_The kid had been crouched beneath a table, back pressed to the wall and an iron sword in his hands. He only lets out a faintly choked sound, tightens his grip and curls into a ball. When he looks up, it's like the ground shatters, because Schlatt is suddenly so fucking angry that he can barely breathe._

_Not at ~~Ty~~ , though. Never at ~~Ty~~. _

_Schlatt turns to his companion. He meets his eye, and they share a look so deadly electric that Schlatt feels a chill down his spine. His lips peel into a snarl._

_"I'm getting him out of here."_

_The other man nods, and Schlatt knows he's agreeing to more than just that statement. When they leave, he splits off from their trio when the kid is too focused on the path to notice, and Schlatt ignores the empty space in his inventory where a strength potion had once laid.)_

Something spurs him to pull the kid into a hug. That made sense, didn't it? That's what you did when a kid cries. He pointedly ignores the screaming impulses that wonder why he thinks that, _he's never done that shit before, ~~has he?~~_

It muffles whatever Tubbo had been saying either way, cuts it off right before he could start up again. Tubbo is stiff as a board for a split second, but he melts just as soon, crumples and sobs and Schlatt takes it all. It goes on like that for a while, and by the time it stops Tubbo has long since run out of tears. It takes Schlatt a minute to realize it's done, and a minute longer to realize that not only has the kid stopped, but he's fallen asleep. Well, more like passed out. But still, it was surreal enough to lock him in place with an edge he couldn't quite comprehend. 

The office door creaks open after a moment too long, and Schlatt notices even when a thankfully slumbering Tubbo does not. Quackity peers inside with an expression Schlatt can't quite read, but it melds into blatant concern as his eyes lock on the silent kid in Schlatt's arms, tear stains still obvious against the stark black of Schlatt's suit jacket. 

They share a look, and Quackity pushes the door open. It doesn't creak — Schlatt always keeps the hinges oiled. 

"Shit," Quackity murmurs as he slides into the space to Tubbo's left, placing a heavy hand on his back, "I knew something was going to go wrong, but this..?" 

Schlatt's expression distorts, and it disturbs him that he doesn't know exactly what face he's making. If he doesn't know, that means he's being _honest,_ and that was a dangerously slippery slope. He couldn't afford honesty. 

"Get him out of here." 

Schlatt speaks with a tone a bit too flat to be appropriate and Quackity's lips press to a fine line, but he reaches out and picks up Tubbo anyway. For all Schlatt's jabs he wasn't exactly as weak as he made him out to be, and it helped that Tubbo pretty damn small. 

Quackity vanishes down the hallway, and Schlatt is left alone in his office, drowning in the ghosts of old, unreachable memories. Schlatt watches them go, and then ever so slowly pushes himself up. 

He walks to his desk. He needs a fucking drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo for... Content? 
> 
> Look I miss SMPlive, sue me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt has his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine heads up, I feel like the quality of these drabbles is deteriorating, so this might be the last one in the series after all folks. Torn between letting it end and trying to fix it. If I do end it, consider this a lackluster last hurrah?

The room is spinning, it's littered with vibrant and soft and gentle colors and Schlatt is fucking relishing in it. He isn't drunk, he wasn't, he was just… 

God, what time was it? Where was he again? 

He opens his bleary eyes and squints hard at the ceiling, and oh, that was right. He was in his office. The sky outside his window was a deep, pitch black, which meant… what? A few hours? 

He pushes himself up and pauses a little at the crick of his neck, twitches a bit as he tries to massage the ache. The leather of his chair creaks beneath his weight, strained from the awkward position he'd fallen into, but that was fine. He was fine. He was _great._ The warmth that bubbles in his blood is more than enough to soothe the pain. He doesn't know when, but he starts to laugh. Soft chuckles morph into near wheezing cackles as he thumps his head back, and the door opens and he squeezes his eyes shut at the light.

"Wh... close th' fuc'n door," he sneers, pushing his sleeve over his eyes, "don't… eugh. Why?..." 

He can't see who stands in the doorway, but he could guess, and he isn't in the mood, okay? He doesn't want to talk about anything, he doesn't want to deal with anything, he just wants more to drink, and oh! 

There's another bottle stashed beneath the desk, and he nearly falls from his seat as he stretches and tries to grab for it. Someone grabs his arm and tugs him back, and he groans audibly as he tries to swat them away. 

"Come on you old drunk," comes a grumble, and _that_ wasn't what he expected. He cracks open an eye to peer at the new arrival, and he catches a glimpse of vibrant orange instead of piercing blue. Not Quackity. 

"Fundy?" 

"Yeah," the fox grumbles, tugging him upright and _god,_ why was Fundy being such a buzzkill? Schlatt was having a shitty few days, he needs… he needs…

What did he need? 

Drink. He needs his drink, right. 

He reaches for the bottle again, but a gentle hand swats him away, and his lips peel into a grimace. 

"Can y'u jus' fuckin' let me… can y'u go?" 

He's slurring and he doesn't give a shit, it doesn't matter. He's exhausted and he's not drunk, he's just tired. Fundy sighs like he's weighed down by a ton, and Schlatt's eyes swim a little whenever the vibrant orange streaks across his vision. 

"You can't keep doing this," Fundy lectures quietly, always quietly. _Wilbur_ probably taught him that, and Schlatt feels a smirk tug at his mouth as he recalls the madness behind the other man's eyes. _What a fucking wreck._

Fundy is still speaking, and Schlatt only just manages to tune back in to catch it. 

"...ubbo isn't around to stop you right now, and Quackity is stretched thin enough as it is." Fundy's ears press flat against his head and Schlatt snorts, tilts a little farther back in his chair because he can. He has balance, he can handle himself just fine. 

"'s not my prob… brob… problem." He stumbles over the word like it's made of soap, but he gets there in the end. 

Maybe he's a little drunk. Just a little. 

"You're shitfaced, actually. I'm shocked you haven't thrown up." 

Fundy sounds exasperated as he pushes Schlatt upright again, once again nudging the new bottle away from his reaching fingertips. 

"Fuuuck you," Schlatt drags out the curse, squeezing his eyes shut, "lemme jus'... Jus' one more. One... Shut up." 

He needs it. He needs it like he needs air, if not more, because his brain is too loud and the pleasant soft blur is clearing up too much, bringing in too much of the sharp edges of reality until his vision doesn't look like a filter anymore. Still, Fundy refuses to let him go, and Schlatt's arms feel too weak and wobbly to fight him off. 

"Y'ur'e… a _dick,"_ he says. Fundy huffs. 

"Come on," he sighs, "Tubbo was enough of a mess. _You_ need to go to sleep. You can't—"

_("— just steal that!" His friend groans, trying in vain to drag him back by the collar of his suit, "c'mon Schlatt, really?"_

_"I do what I want, you prick!" Schlatt is laughing near manically again, throwing his head back and purposefully leaning all the way forward with his weight. The other man grumbles threats about letting him fall, but Schlatt ignores it. He knows he wouldn't._

_"Schlatt?"_

_He blinks and there's a blur of white and pink standing in front of him, crossed arms and a bemused smile._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Nnnooothing?"_

_The unconvinced eyebrow raise makes him laugh all over again, and the other man still holding his collar sighs._

_"Ty, your dad is a delusional drunk," he grumbles. The kid snorts._

_"Not my dad, I'm just an intern," he reminds, not that anyone ever really seems to give a shit. Schlatt gave up correcting them a while ago, once they all refused to heed his repeated 'im not that old' ramblings._

_He turns back to Schlatt, opens his mouth with fond exasperation.)_

"Schlatt, for fucks sake man, let go of the bottle — how are you so strong _only_ for this?!" 

Schlatt blinks, long and slow. His vision blurs and focuses again, and there's that familiar smear of orange and black. That was normal, wasn't it? Why was he expecting something else? 

Fundy is tugging at the bottle in his hands, and oh, when had that gotten there? Whatever, Schlatt isn't one to question good things, so he makes to bring it to his lips. Unfortunately for him, Fundy takes the opportunity of his shifted grip to snatch it away. Schlatt gasps, reaches for it in sweeping slashes that miss by a mile. Fundy holds it out of his grip like he's a toddler, and Schlatt puffs up like an indignant child. At least there's this — there's the bit, and it doesn't abandon him when he needs it.

"Yer'... yer' a piece of shit," he grumbles, "stupid… fuckin' furry." Fundy rolls his eyes again. 

"Yeah yeah, come on. Let's get you out of here before you puke on your carpet again." 

Fundy scrunches up his face in disgust, and even Schlatt can admit that the memory is unpleasant. It was most of the reason he'd gotten more wood flooring in the whitehouse instead. Fundy pulls him up and slings an arm around his shoulders, pushes Schlatt to uneven feet and adjusts his hat. 

"Next time I'm making Tubbo do this, now that he's actually here to stay." 

Fundy's voice is a distant mumble, but Schlatt is too close not to hear it. Fundy, quiet as he is, says it with a hint of incredulity and Schlatt tries to stifle his laughter, because _welcome to the fucking club._

"This is a pretty shitty club, Schlatt." Fundy's voice is dry, and Schlatt snickers even as a distant part of his heart drops. He has to shut up. He has to. Careful, careful, cautious. Fuck. 

The bit. Find the bit. _Find it._

"'s perfect for y'u then," he taunts, "aaaall in th' same… er. Same place, y'know?"

Fundy gives a suffering sigh and turns his head away, and something terribly fragile behind Schlatt's smile solidifies again, an old masked friend. Good. 

Fundy guides him back to his room, tugs off his suit jacket and nudges him toward the bed. Schlatt collapses onto it, not because he _wants_ to, but because his legs refuse to work. 

At some point his eyes close. That's fine. He'll be fine. 

He'll be…

.

.

.

He's awake. He's awake, and he has never regret anything more in his entire fucking life, because his head throbs and everything aches. It feels like even his horns are in agony, rippling with pain as he pulls himself upright. When he manages to crack open his eyes for longer than a split second, light streams into the room, beaming across the bedroom and brightening the colors like a lightshow from hell. Schlatt wishes they'd just go fucking muted already. 

"Jesus," he murmurs, pressing weary hands to his eyes. How much had he drunk? 

There's a knock at his door. 

"Fuck off," he calls. The knock sounds again, not even a second after. Smartass. 

He grumbles and hisses but he pushes himself up, steadies his balance against the wall when he nearly lurches forward all at once. His vision swims, but he stuffs it back and swallows down bile. He shoves a hand through his hair, pastes on a sneer. When he opens the door, his gaze is forcibly sharpened to a glare. 

_"What?"_

He's looking a bit too high apparently, because he only catches a glimpse of the top of someone's head. He has to actually look down to peer at Tubbo, wide eyed and visibly nervous. 

"... Um. Good morning, Schlatt?" 

Tubbo's voice is incredibly small, and he flinches away when Schlatt's hand rises to flick some of his hair away from his horns. He's certain he looks like a wreck, but he also knows that isn't _why_ Tubbo looks close to bolting. 

Last night was a fucking blur, but he remembers what happened before he began to reach for the glass cups and heavy bottles just fine. He remembers Tubbo's sobs, his heaving breaths. His wide eyes and panicked gasps. 

He remembers the confession of guilt. The one that burns holes into his pockets, whispers messages of _traitor_ that he'd already marked read a month ago. 

Schlatt stares at Tubbo, and he doesn't know what he's about to do. He feels tension build between them, a heavyset wall that makes Tubbo sweat and shift like he's being burned alive. The fact that the kid was still here meant one of two things; he thought he'd gotten away with it, or he thought that Schlatt didn't care. 

"... Good morning," he says eventually. It's far too late to pretend there _wasn't_ a pause, but it seems like Tubbo was less focused on that than the words themselves. At the lack of a screaming match or direct accusation, his shoulders, visibly relax as he gives a shaky smile. 

"Um — Quackity said… he said you have coffee? In the office?" Tubbo's voice is high and anxious, and Schlatt pretends he doesn't hear it, just as he had for weeks beforehand. The difference burned him though; before, he had a plan. Now he was fucking floundering, and this was all he had. 

"Thank fuck," he grumbles instead, slipping out the door without bothering to change his shirt, "I knew he was good for something. Better not have put a bunch of stupid shit in it." 

He walks right past Tubbo, and he pretends not to see the way the kid's shoulders slump almost immediately as soon as he thinks Schlatt can no longer see him. 

It's a good thing Schlatt is never, ever honest, not even with himself. Because if he was, he'd have to admit that he still didn't know what the hell he was going to do about this.

Yeah. 

Good thing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any idea how I could make this more in character, I'd appreciate it. I feel like I'm pulling away too much from what makes sense.

**Author's Note:**

> This was... Kind of a character study? Maybe? If it was an AU, I suppose.


End file.
